


L O V E.

by redhouseboys



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Keith angst, M/M, Nightmares, Panic Attack, i wrote this shit in my iPhone notes, lance is so lovely and sweet wtf, protect our boy keith at all costs, this is uhhh a little gay don’t you think, tw for abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-26
Updated: 2017-09-26
Packaged: 2019-01-05 14:37:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12191835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redhouseboys/pseuds/redhouseboys
Summary: A ghost-like, shaking feeling, hand on his shoulder—and then Keith is gasping awake, taking in painful gulps of air. His eyes are dark and wide with terror, and he can’t register where he is, at first. The hand on his shoulder, though soft, feels menacing in the darkness. “Don’t—“ He stammers, carefully shaking it off. Keith looks down at his finger then, expecting to see blood there, to feel the emptiness. The first is not there. The latter is.“Keith,” says the voice again. Even softer now, like the kind of rain you long for in the aridity of summer, the first droplets of water that break the devastating heat. “Keith, hey, it’s me. It’s Lance.”





	L O V E.

**Author's Note:**

> you know i had to do it to ‘em
> 
> am i sucker for keith angst??? yup, you guessed it. i wrote this in my iphone notes can you believe how fucking gay that is 
> 
> anyway, this is another self indulgent hurt/comfort thing. sue me 
> 
> thank you for reading, and comments/kudos mean the world to me <3 remember, you are all beautiful, and worthy of love!!

Keith is twelve years old. His mother disappeared when he was five— his father is dead, and he is now in his third foster home, a careless rotation of impermanence that makes him silent and disoriented. The second home, he remembers, had been kind and warm— a cozy house with the flickering glow of the fire place illuminating Keith’s violet eyes.

Laying here now, in the cold, sharp darkness of a rickety attic, Keith can’t decide whether he prefers this to his previous home. 

The warmth—that had seemed like a practical joke, each crackling ember and chocolate chip cookie mocking him. A sneering, scathing voice in the back of Keith’s mind, always whispering: this will go away too. They won’t keep you. This will go away. 

At least, here, in the weighted quiet, in the purple and blue nighttime, Keith can look forward to leaving. Here, there is no false hope, just an insatiable itch, the beautiful, bright feeling that comes with having no attachments. 

It’s not all beauty, though. As Keith stumbles tiredly down the stairs at 6am, he hears his foster father yelling his name, a sound like grating steel, brick on gravel. He moves a little faster, appearing in the kitchen, where the man hands him a flimsy breakfast, and he eats quickly. After this, he is told to do the dishes, which isn’t too terrible—but something about the steady stream of water is oddly alienating. He doesn’t like it, and he thinks of his mother, shining eyes and gentle smile; his hands become a little shakier.

The scene fractures, suddenly. The next thing Keith knows, he’s dropped one of the plates on accident, the fragile glass slipping through his soapy fingers. It shatters on the ground, breaking into sharp fragments. Keith can already feel his breathing getting rougher. “I-I’m so sorry,” he begins, “it was an accident—“ 

His foster father clicks his tongue, shakes his head, but beyond that, doesn’t seem to care.

Keith kneels on the ground, grabbing the different pieces, accidentally slicing his palm once with a sharper piece. His foster father stoops down to stop him, disappointment clear in his eyes, and takes over, telling Keith to grab himself a band aid in the cabinet nearby. After he finishes, the man tells him he’s free to go back to his room. It is flippancy, a gaze so devoid of anything that it makes Keith’s stomach unfurl in dangerous rolls of thunder. 

Angry at himself for the simple mistake, Keith wanders back to his tiny attic room, and he reaches for the knife underneath his pillow, a distant ache in the calloused pads of his fingertips. Quietly, he presses one to the very top of the blade, watching a curious drop of blood flourish against the pale skin. He wonders, then, what his mother would say about letting him play with knives at such a young age. 

But his mother is gone. So he presses harder, not registering the ache, and the small drop of blood trickles down his finger, swirling in the creases of his palms—

“Keith,” he hears. It is not the earthquake of his foster father’s voice. Rather, it is gentle, like a wave lapping softly at the shore, pushing back and forth. The twelve year old is confused now, caught between fear and befuddlement, a state of limbo that makes the anxiety white hot. “Keith, Keith, Keith.” 

A ghost-like, shaking feeling, hand on his shoulder—and then Keith is gasping awake, taking in painful gulps of air. His eyes are dark and wide with terror, and he can’t register where he is, at first. The hand on his shoulder, though soft, feels menacing in the darkness. “Don’t—“ He stammers, carefully shaking it off. Keith looks down at his finger then, expecting to see blood there, to feel the emptiness. The first is not there. The latter is.

“Keith,” says the voice again. Even softer now, like the kind of rain you long for in the aridity of summer, the first droplets of water that break the devastating heat. “Keith, hey, it’s me. It’s Lance.” 

Lance. Lance. Lance. Keith knows that name. In the low light, his eyes manage to focus in on the body in front of him, and sure enough—those blue eyes are vibrant, even in night, like glittering stars. “L...Lance?” 

“That’s right,” Lance replies. He holds out a hand for Keith, an offer. His fingers are splayed, as if waiting for Keith to fill the gaps with his own. “You’re here with me. You’re alright.”

Keith feels his chest trembling. His breathing is still not healthy, but it is better. He lets himself loosen and then reaches for Lance, intertwining their fingers. 

“There you go.” Lance’s smile is sweet, beautiful, calm. He squeezes Keith’s hand gently. “It’s alright, Keith.” 

“I...” Keith starts, but his voice is a brittle rasp, and it hurts to speak. Lance shushes him soothingly. 

“Keith, if you’re about to apologize, then I gotta ask you to stop right there,” Lance implores. His eyes are kind and endless— an ocean, a galaxy, and Keith wants to fly in them, get lost and live and burn hot in that gorgeous blue. “I have nightmares all the time, you know that. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.” 

Keith bites his lower lip, hard enough to draw blood. He knows very well the nights where Lance awakens in a cold sweat, gasping and clinging to Keith. The aching noise of his sobs, the shaking of his body, suddenly frail against Keith’s own. Those nights are heartbreaking. But Keith would never ask Lance to apologize for a single tear. 

Still, Keith feels ashamed. He swallows the impulsive apology and looks sadly down at their hands. 

“Can I pet your hair?” 

Keith’s heart softens a bit. Lance asks— always asks before he touches Keith (unless he knows from body language only that Keith desires it). That alone is so beautiful it lessens the ache a bit. The heat at the corners of Keith’s eyes still burns. 

He nods and scoots toward Lance again, settling into his arms. Lance starts to comb his fingers through Keith’s hair, strands spilling soft and silken between his fingers. They are silent for a while, Lance carefully guiding Keith’s breathing by demonstrating with his own. Eventually, Keith follows him, and the warmth of Lance’s body is peaceful. The way his fingers scratch at Keith’s scalp, the way Lance smiles down at him, the way he whispers “everything’s going to be okay, baby.” It feels like something. It feels like love. 

For a moment, Keith’s fingers start to tremble again, blood shuddering, cold and thick in his veins. Lance is like the fireplace in the second home. An unmistakable comfort, a sense of love that flickers orange and yellow and it’s so _warm_ —

And it will not last. 

Love is ephemeral, and Keith knows this. The love around him does not ever stay for long—it wraps around his heart, making him soft, until it realizes he is not good enough and yanks itself away. Each sharp tug leaves his heart harder, colder, more jagged. Love, love, love. Oh, god. The heat in his eyes goes cold as it spills down his cheeks, and he’s so glad it’s dark and will be harder to spot. 

But Lance is perceptive, of course. 

“Hey,” he says, concern flooding his tone. He reaches out, waiting for a silent approval from Keith before he’s caressing a porcelain cheek and wiping the wetness away with the pad of his thumb. “Hey, it’s alright. I’m here for you, Keith.” Keith sniffles, feeling less ashamed as he settles into Lance’s trusting touch. “Do you need to talk about it?” 

Keith closes his eyes. Some reasonable part of his mind knows that he should—but then the darkening of a bright fire and the dank smells of a rotting attic plague his senses and he shakes his head. He can’t. He just can’t. 

“That’s okay,” Lance soothes. “You don’t have to. I just want you to know that you can, anytime.” 

“Why do you have to be like this?”

Lance seems taken aback, and removes his hand, as if he’s been stung. “Like—like what?” he asks. A flash of insecurity and shame burns in Lance’s eyes and Keith wants to pull his own hair out for making Lance look that way. “Am I doing something wrong?” 

More tears spill. Keith’s throat is thick and it’s difficult to speak past the wetness. “No, that’s the _problem._ You’re so—you’re perfect, Lance, absolutely perfect.” His chest is getting heavier again. Lance is still so warm. “And it just—it’s just going to make it so much harder when you—when—“ He can’t get it out. It feels lodged at the roof of his mouth, acidic. 

“When I what?” Lance asks. The hurt has left his eyes, and it is all concern now. God, Keith hates it. He hates that he loves those eyes so much. 

“When you leave.” Keith’s voice is small, and it takes several moments before the words emerge. 

“Oh, Keith...” And then the arms are around him again, pulling him in close to Lance’s chest. “Oh, baby..” 

Keith sniffles, unable to stop himself from burying his face in Lance’s neck. This is dangerous, so fucking dangerous. But he can’t let go. 

“I’m not going to leave you,” Lance says, with such sincerity that it sends a shockwave through Keith’s body. “Keith, I promise you. Never, ever. I...” He hesitates, and then— “not like she did. Not like anybody else.” 

Keith lets out a sob, but it is a sound of love. Fuck. He can’t pull himself away from this, no matter how long it lasts. Not from Lance. And Lance’s voice is so strong and sure, Keith can’t help but cling to his certainty. 

For once, Keith thinks he can believe that. 

“Keith, I’m like—so stupidly in love with you,” Lance continues, petting Keith’s hair once more. It comes out as a laugh—but it is not mocking. It is soft, sincere. “I don’t want to leave you. I don’t think I ever could, Keith.” 

“But—“ 

“No buts, no nuts, no coconuts, mister.” Keith can’t help but let out a little snort at that. “Whatever bad things people have told you about yourself, whatever lies you tell to yourself—none of them are true. And—and whoever made you feel like this, made you so scared to be abandoned, I hope that they know how stupid they are to leave behind someone so absolutely, indescribably beautiful.” 

Keith cries again, but it is with a smile, with a heart swelling so big in his chest he fears it may burst. “You’re—you’re such a big sap.” 

“And you love it.” Lance kisses his forehead, and Keith can feel that gorgeous smile against his skin. 

“I do,” Keith whispers, clutching onto Lance. “Lance I—I love you so much.”

“And I love you too,” Lance replies, and Keith’s heart flutters. “Can I kiss you?” 

“Please do,” Keith replies, and Lance pulls back, cupping Keith’s cheek with one hand and leaning in to press his lips softly against Keith’s own. 

And they spend hours that night trading kisses, loving and lazy. Many “I love yous” are murmured, and Keith is still afraid, but god, he trusts Lance. Nobody has ever been so fiercely loyal to him before, so determined to stick with him despite the sharp, jagged edges of his heart, and Keith...Keith sort of believes that someone who tries this hard to be with him doesn’t plan on leaving.

Besides, he’s never been able to get rid of Lance anyway. 

Lance is not impermanent, Keith realizes then, in the sweet cinnamon of his kisses. Lance is not a home built to be temporary. His heart is too gentle, too full of immeasurable love to be that way. 

And Keith thinks, then, that that endless rotation from home to home, being passed like a rag doll from one family to another—all of it was just on the way. He’d finally landed somewhere permanent, with someone who wanted to keep him. 

Lance is his forever home.


End file.
